Into the Grove

Or should I say out of.

The fish tank at the dart board end of the bar is already gone, and soon will be followed by the darts and the stools and the tables and the bar itself and the walls and the roof and all the locals, none of whom would be in a position to return as the landlord of one of the 18 apartments with underground car park.
Old photographs of old parties are being redistributed to the people in them. We got the one of me with a strange hair do and Panther reluctantly wearing a shiny wig.
The place is strangely busy. A bit like a lot of long lost cousins are turning up to see their dying relative for one last time.

The usual double act are defiantly playing music into the wee small hours (the worst thing that can happen is already going to happen anyway) and the locals are singing. The fellah who’s the image of Liam Brady and sings as well as his double played with the ball; Mona Lisa’s virtues are melodiously declared and some others’ with more uncertain voice but with the same passion; young Stevo, being a bit more special than your usual karaoke chancer, is helped along to his party piece Alice. Always encouraged, never derided
And the ManU fan the size of a pint glass who, had he been born an insect, would be a daddylonglegs, dances between the tables. Overdressed and overfed grandmothers wobble along to the 60s and 70s, some with the grace of the swans on the canal bank outside, some finding the lighter step of their younger days.


The brave brothers who briefly rescued this little public sitting room from the bulldozers now serve pints with a bitter (not embittered) smile.

Pinzimonio